Murder Abroad

by E. R. Punshon

  “Monsieur Williams, too,” he remarked, “the tenant of the Pépin Mill, it appears he claimed to be an officer of your London police.”

  “Bit of cheek,” explained Bobby and gave in detail the information he had received about Williams’s past, explaining, too, how he had secured it by obtaining a specimen of Williams’s finger-prints.

  Alain nodded abstractedly.

  “It is interesting, that,” he observed. “You connected his departure from Citry and his Paris alibi with the disappearance of Volny?”

  “It made me uneasy, I felt there was more than appeared,” Bobby answered. “What we call in England the M.O.—the method of operation—gives a very good hint of what to expect, only this time the dates don’t seem to agree. Williams’s care to provide proof he was in Paris on one special night suggested something was meant to happen that night, but apparently Volny was killed about the time he was first missed? I gathered that from what I heard the doctors say, but if so, that was before Williams left the Pépin Mill.”

  “The medical evidence is a little doubtful as yet,” Alain answered. “They are not very sure of the effect of the artificial manure on the body. Probably preservative. There are to be experiments.”

  “Volny had been strangled, hadn’t he?” Bobby asked.

  “There are heavy bruises on the head, a cord round the neck,” Alain answered. “The assumption is that he was attacked, knocked senseless, strangled. A similar piece of cord was found in the house. It had been used for tying up a box. There is nothing to show what has become of Shields. A general inquiry for him will be made.”

  “Nothing has been heard of Camion since this morning?”

  “Nothing. I should be glad to hear any observations you can make.”

  “I can only give you theories/’ Bobby said slowly. “I have not been able to find any material proofs. I think perhaps none were left. I think it certain Mademoiselle Polthwaite was murdered, but murdered with a mingling of cunning and audacity that makes it difficult to find proof of the assassin’s identity.

  “In Volny’s case murder is evident and I think has resulted from the previous murder. One can only reason from probabilities. My belief is that Volny at first thought only of searching for the hoard he believed might still be hidden at the Pépin Mill, grew to entertain suspicions of murder, heard of Williams’s vague hints that evidence of some sort had been found in or near the Mill well, associated that story with the gold pencil-case in Williams’s possession, knew or guessed that it had originally belonged to Shields, got hold of it somehow from Williams, brought it to show Shields and ask him about it, with the result that Shields, in an outburst of anger or of panic, attacked and killed him. Shields, of course, knew he was not exempt from suspicion, and in face of such an accusation he may have lost his head—innocent or guilty. Quite probably Shields mislaid the pencil on one of his visits to Miss Polthwaite and Williams came across it and thought it might be useful in some way.”

  “Volny’s body may have been hidden where it was found without the knowledge of Shields, to throw suspicion on him,” Alain remarked. “I may tell you that we have information now that Volny was seen in a small bistro near here soon after he left Citry and that a young man answering the description of Camion inquired for him there. One does not,” he added, “even know if there is any truth in this story of Mademoiselle Polthwaite’s store of hidden diamonds.”

  “In any case,” Bobby said, “the story was current, and, it seems certain, provided the motive. I have proof that she was obsessed by fear of a world-wide revolution and that she invested her funds in the purchase of jewels, mostly uncut and unset stones easy to dispose of, impossible to identify, easy to carry away. The poor woman, trying to safeguard herself from imaginary dangers of revolution and what she called bolshevism, incurred very real ones. People like her get so used to their orderly, guarded existence, they can’t imagine sudden incursions of violence. It simply doesn’t happen in their experience.

  “Obviously various people were open to suspicion. I believe they were all considered and all questioned by you at the time. Some of the suspects had alibis. Alibis are often suspicious. Shields was here in Barsac. The Abbé Taylour was under the care of a doctor. Eudes was away at a political conference. But the Abbé Taylour might have been shamming. He kept his lantern burning those days anyhow. Eudes might have slipped away from his conference without his political friends noticing it. Shields—I think his alibi was very closely examined?”

  “Most carefully,” answered Alain. “It was impossible he could have used a car which indeed he did not possess. Bicycling was equally impossible. The roads were being watched. One does not traverse the Bornay Massif twice during darkness unless one has wings.”

  “Camion and Volny, and the Abbé Granges, curé of Citry-sur-l’eau,” continued Bobby, “were all admittedly on the spot. Williams, I presume, did not come under official notice at that time?”

  “We had never heard of him,” Alain answered. “His tenancy of the mill was remarked, but there seemed nothing to suggest any connection with the murder. It was known there were rumours that the dead woman had left valuables hidden in the Pepin Mill itself or the garden. A watch was therefore kept. In that connection, we knew also that Shields had spoken to Eudes and suggested there would be a large reward if any jewellery hidden could be found and restored to the family. It seemed to suggest Shields was innocent since he was still eager to find what presumably the unfortunate woman had been murdered to obtain.”

  “It was perhaps for that reason,” Bobby answered, “that the suggestion was made. To create an impression of innocence and at the same time to keep up a connection with the village so that he might learn of any developments—as he learned quickly of my own arrival.”

  “You suspect then that Shields is the assassin?” Alain asked. “But there is also this Williams, whose appearance has to be explained. His movements at the time must be traced—though that will be difficult after so long an interval.”

  “I was inclined to suspect Shields from the first,” Bobby said, “but only vaguely and suspicion is not proof. One oughtn’t to suggest anything like that too quickly. It is easier to make mischief than to cure it and innocent people have a right to protection. They mustn’t be implicated without good cause. So I held my tongue. But I noticed two things. Mademoiselle Polthwaite had a paint brush clasped in her hand when her body was found. Shields was the most likely person she would be talking to about painting. He gave her lessons and criticized her efforts. It was possible she was asking his advice when struck down. It was possible he was distracting her attention in some way. An indication only and even a faint one, but I noted it. I was told something else. An unfinished letter was found on her desk. It had only just been begun. She had apparently been writing when disturbed by the arrival of her murderer. Only the first sentences were written. They ran: ‘J’en ai des écus jusqu’aux yeux, jusqu’en avoir peur.’”

  “I remember,” Alain agreed. “I remember even the phrase. But what is the importance? ‘Avoir des écus,’ it’s a common way of saying that a person has more money than he knows what to do with, and apparently that was the case with Mademoiselle Polthwaite. Apparently also she was nervous, afraid, because of it—afraid of revolution, bolsheviks, what not.”

  “Monsieur,” said Bobby gravely, “it may mean nothing and it may mean much, but the word ‘écus’ is, in English, ‘shields’, and Shields is the name of one of those suspected. Was it not perhaps Shields of whom she had had enough and of whom she was afraid that night?”

  CHAPTER XXI

  BOBBY REASONS

  The juge d’instruction sat silent and thoughtful for some moments. He rose from his chair and walked to the window and then came back and sat down again.

  “If only we had known that at the time,” he muttered, half to himself, and then to Bobby he added: “But are you sure? Pardon. It is stupid to ask that. But you understand, I do not know a word of English.”
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  “I can assure you,” Bobby answered, “that ‘Shields’ is the English for ‘écus’.”

  “If only we had known that before,” Alain repeated, and went on apologetically: “You understand? There was not one concerned in the inquiry who had knowledge of English.”

  “Easy to overlook,” Bobby assured him. “The word conveys the idea of money and one forgets the literal meaning is ‘shield’ which has no reference to money in English. Mademoiselle Polthwaite’s family never noticed it, though some of them certainly speak French. I expect Mademoiselle Polthwaite meant to add something to make her meaning more plain. I imagine she very likely started to write just before Shields came, or even while he was there.”

  He paused. There seemed to rise a clear vision in his mind, a swift succession of vivid pictures as though he sat in a cinema and watched a film. He seemed to see Miss Polthwaite after her quarrel with young Camion hearing a step outside, a knock at the door; rising to open in the quick hope that Camion had understood at last and had returned, or else had sent some one else ready to stay with her through the night; finding herself instead faced there upon the threshold with the man she had begun to dread; concealing her alarm; asking him to enter; smiling a welcome; accepting easily whatever excuse he put forward for his late arrival; understanding that he only wished to assure himself she was alone, but smiling still; begging him to excuse her while she finished a note she was writing, resolute that if she were to die at least she would leave some clue to indicate her murderer; realizing almost at once that her purpose was suspected and for that reason wrapping up her meaning as best she could, so that even if he read it afterwards he might not destroy it; obliged to leave it uncompleted when he began to show a restless and horrible impatience; even then not despairing but beginning to talk of her painting; still striving to gain time; hoping still that Camion might return or another might come in his place; hoping perhaps that in talk of art and painting, their common interest, murder might be forgotten; hoping even that such an appeal to their common search for beauty in expression, which should make good comrades of all who share in it, might in the end turn the assassin from his purpose. Bobby seemed clearly to understand that that firm hope and will had never left her, and that, solitary, alone, and helpless, she had never yielded to despair, but had still fought on, thinking of death and chatting of art, paint brush in hand, till there crashed down upon her from behind the blow that had been the end.

  Plainly, as plainly as if he had seen it all recorded on the screen, so clearly that it lives as vividly in his memory as though he had been a witness of the actual scenes, so clearly, plainly, vividly indeed that, remembering, he almost believes there was some mysterious, unknown power at work, conveying to him thus strangely what in fact had been, did Bobby see all this.

  It passed. It was as though the series was complete, the reel finished, the message given. He stirred slightly in his chair and moved like a man awakening from sleep. He heard Alain draw in deeply his breath. There came to Bobby a memory of something said to him by the Abbé Taylour—that where the human soul once had fled in anguish and in terror, there the memory still lingered on the earth. The thought came to him that if that were true, then perhaps in some strange and unknown way there had been called up in his mind a recollection of a dreadful hour of the past. In a low and troubled voice, Alain said:

  “It was as though just now I saw it all pictured there, like a dream, like a film at the cinema. Yet I was awake.’’ To Bobby he said: “I cannot explain. You could not understand unless you, too, had seen.”

  “I did,” Bobby said, but Alain shook his head. He said:

  “It was like a dream, only more vivid. One does not share another’s dream. Also I was awake. It would be impossible to make you understand or anyone. It is very strange for I am not of those who believe. Also,” he added more briskly, “it is not evidence and so it is not of importance. Merely one’s imagination at work showing how it might have happened.”

  “Yes,” said Bobby. After a time he said again: “Yes.” Then he added but more to himself than aloud: “I wonder.”

  Alain was busy, fumbling among his papers, once more the brisk, efficient magistrate. He said:

  “All the same, she had courage, that one. She held out to the end. It is that that counts, to hold out to the end, no matter what end.”

  “Yes,” said Bobby again. “Go down fighting,” he said.

  “All is there,” agreed Alain. “Enough of that, though. What we need is evidence, proof. There are indications, certainly. In effect, good indications. But an advocate defending would ask: ‘Where is the proof?’ and a jury might listen. One could invent other explanations and, above all, where is Shields? It may be that once again he will produce an alibi to make us helpless. The night Mademoiselle Polthwaite died, it is proved he was here in the evening, proved he was here the next morning. How is it possible to persuade a jury that he crossed the Bornay Massif, there and back, during a dark winter night, when they could see for themselves that it is impossible? ”

  “I don’t think it is in fact impossible,” Bobby said. “I think it could be done. I think I know how.”

  “Yes. Well?”

  “I expect you heard from Monsieur Clauzel that I visited a farm to buy binder twine,” Bobby went on. “Monsieur Clauzel asked why. I did not want to explain then for I felt I had to be more sure of my ground and I wasn’t pressed. I expect it didn’t seem to matter. It was Volny’s disappearance that I was being asked about and there didn’t seem any connection. May I remind you of two things? Shields knows French well, he has lived long in this country and he speaks French fluently. It seemed to me odd he should make such a blunder as ordering a huge supply of artificial manure and, further, a bale of binder twine, instead of a ball or two of raffia. Odd things have sometimes explanations even more odd. I noticed that no use had been made of the artificial manure— at least, not until now. But the bale of binder twine had nearly been used up. It struck me that perhaps it was the binder twine that was really wanted and the other stuff only ordered for a blind. Then by a bit of luck I learned that Shields had seemed interested—even oddly interested —in a classical dictionary with illustrations by Gustave Doré.”

  He paused and Alain said:

  “Monsieur Shields is an artist. It is not strange that he should be interested in Doré’s work. It has its merits even though to-day it seems to us a little crude, raw even, without real depth or feeling. But what have Gustave Doré’s illustrations of more than fifty years ago to do with murder to-day?”

  “Apparently,” Bobby continued without answering this directly, “there was one illustration that had interested Shields particularly, for that special page was thumb- marked and there was even on it a burn from a cigarette end. Naturally Monsieur and Madame Camion were annoyed. It is vexing to see treated so carelessly a book one values, and indeed I think Shields had been even more careless than he knew. Possibly as a request or warning to me to be more careful, the elder Camion showed me that page. You remember, monsieur, the story of Theseus, the Minotaur, the labyrinth, Ariadne? Doré’s illustration showed Ariadne offering Theseus the ball of thread by which he was to retrace his steps through the labyrinth after slaying the Minotaur.”

  “I remember the story well enough,” Alain said, “but still I do not understand.”

  “For Theseus, the hero,” continued Bobby, “read Shields, the assassin. For the Minotaur, the monster, read poor Mademoiselle Polthwaite, who was no monster. For the labyrinth, read the Bornay Massif, almost equally difficult to traverse. For Ariadne’s ball of thread, read a bale of binder twine.”

  “You mean,” asked Alain looking very puzzled, “that Shields marked out paths across the Massif with binder twine and followed them so in the darkness at night. Is that possible?”

  “Why not?” Bobby asked. “He was out all day and many days on the Massif during his supposedly sketching expeditions. He found the paths to follow and to mark them ti
ed binder twine from bush to bush, or even between stakes driven into the ground. Then he had only to pick up the twine in one hand and follow it as Theseus followed Ariadne’s thread. I imagine that on his way back Shields picked up the twine, made it into balls and threw them away. I expect a search would find some. I think, too, that is why he persuaded the Abbé Taylour to hang out a lantern each night, it made a most useful, almost a necessary landmark to guide him—a landmark of murder.”

  “It is a possible explanation,” Alain admitted thoughtfully. “One had not considered it. Crossing the Bornay Massif at night seemed too impossible to be worth considering. It was intelligent of you, monsieur, to work out the possibility of such a method having been practised.”

  “I suppose it was chiefly luck,” Bobby answered, “the luck of young Camion’s father showing me that particular page in his dictionary. It was that started me wondering whether possibly Shields was more interested in Ariadne’s trick than in Doré’s drawing. I remembered Shields told me once he wasn’t keen on the old style stuff and went out of his way to refer to Doré as being hopelessly out of date, and yet here he was taking special interest in his work. It didn’t seem consistent, and when things don’t hang together there’s sometimes an explanation if you can find it.”

  “That is true,” agreed Alain, “and it was certainly extraordinary good fortune that Camion père had the idea of drawing your attention to that drawing. I only wish that while the Polthwaite inquiry was going on, such a piece of luck had come our way.”

  He looked at Bobby enviously; and Bobby found himself suddenly and ruefully wondering if ever he would learn to wrap up his methods in suitable mystery instead of explaining them away. If only he had had the sense to hold his tongue and look profound, his little feat of deduction would have appeared in a light as exaggerated as now diminished.